


In Sickness

by lovehugsandcandy



Category: Ride or Die (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:00:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22119802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovehugsandcandy/pseuds/lovehugsandcandy
Summary: When Ellie is sick, Colt tries to help (tries being the operative word here).
Relationships: Colt Kaneko/Main Character (Ride or Die)
Kudos: 9





	In Sickness

Ellie is barely cogent the entire walk down. She knows she checked that Logan was fast asleep in a sprawl on the couch. She thinks she gingerly made her way down the steps, gripping the handrail the entire way. She’s pretty sure that she shuffled down the hall and barely knocked before pushing the door open without a word.

“Ellie?” Colt is a blurry shape, all bare chest and bed head as he pushes up on his elbows. “Baby? That you?”

“I don’t feel well,” she croaks, forward progress halting as her legs hit his mattress.

He flops against the bed and opens his arms, an unspoken invitation she’s unsure if she would have received had he been fully awake and aware of the chills ravaging her body. But she doesn’t even think twice, falling into his bed and sliding into his arms, burrowing under the covers and pulling him closer by the dig of her nails so she can fall into a delirious sleep.

~~~~~

Colt blinks open his eyes and is befuddled by the shape in his arms. He blinks again, and she is still there, unmoving; if it weren’t for the warmth in his arms and curls pouring out of the blanket, he would have confused it for a massive pile of sheets.

“Ellie?” The heap doesn’t move, so he sticks out his index finger to poke. “Ellie? When did you-”

A clawed hand comes out and swats him away before slithering back under the sheets; he edges backwards, waiting to see if the monster will make another attempt before leaning closer again.

“Ellie?”

“Ishick.”

He can’t tell what the hell that means but she sounds like shit, throaty and hoarse, voice low and pained. “Are you ok?”

“I’m sick.”

“You’re don’t feel well?”

“I feel awful.”

He peers closer, still seeing only dark strands on his pillow, and he can’t stop the question from coming out. “Why are you  _ here _ ?”

The hand whips out, and he has to dodge again, quickly, as she flails about trying to whack him. After a few shakes of her fist, it feebly drops to the mattress. “I’m sick and I want to feel better.”

“Oh.” He furrows his brow, opening his mouth to speak, before closing it again. He has no idea what to  _ do _ . He is not the first person (or second or third, if he were honest) that anyone has ever gone to for any kind of comfort. He’s never had a sick girl lying piteously in his bed, and this situation beyond his comprehension. She hacks a cough under his blanket and he runs his hand through his hair.

“I just…” Her voice trails off, and she sounds close to crying; something in his gut positively twists. “I just want to get better.”

He frowns. He hates feeling helpless. So he lies there, unsure and confused, until her breathing slows again, catch in each exhale making him wince. Silently, he crawls from the bed, dressing quickly, and makes his way into the sunlight for the first thing he can think of. 

The store is crowded, 11am apparently being a prime time for hoards of shoppers, and he needs to fight through at least two bickering families before he gets to the aisle. He finds what he is looking for but stops, confused, at the garish can in his hand. He sighs and turns it over before giving it a hearty shake. It sounds like goop. Even he knows that chicken noodle soup is supposed to be good for someone who’s sick, but the mass inside sounds gelatinous, inedible. This can’t be what they mean.

He wanders through the aisles again, glaring back at the asshole cashier who is keeping a close eye on him. Obviously, the kid considers everyone with a leather jacket a potential thief. Colt rolls his eyes. Unless this kid had a stock of unreleased luxury vehicles in the back room, his shitty food was safe.

Finally, he wanders over to a meager fresh food section and stops when he sees steaming tins of soup. ‘ _ Made Fresh Every Day _ ,’ the sign proudly proclaims, and he looks closer at the large case of chicken noodle, opening the lid. It looks hot, comforting, and it has to be better than the shit in the can. He ladles some out into a tub- _ crap, Ellie hates celery, he’ll have to scoop it out _ -and grabs a few packages of oyster crackers.

He groans before fighting his way back through the crowds to the front of the store. He hopes this works.

~~~~~

Colt rubs the sleep from his eyes as he heads into the packed break room. After he had given Ellie the soup, she had fallen back into a fitful sleep and he had stood there, watching her toss and turn for a minute, before slipping into bed next to her. Once he pulled her against his chest so he could thread his arm around her waist, she had stilled, breath coming deeper and the tremble in her limbs ceasing. So, of course, he couldn’t move, not when her hair was pillowed underneath his chin and she was wrapped tight in his arms; then, when he opened his eyes again, hours had passed, the sun sliding through the sky to mark afternoon through his window.

“Where is she?” Logan looks up, eyes hard, as Colt falls into a chair.

“Asleep.” 

“In your room?”

“Yeah. Said she’s sick.”

Logan glares, jaw working a grinding beat, before he stands, the chair scraping on the floor behind him. “I’m gonna go check on her.”

“Don’t wake her up, asshole!”

Mona shakes her head as Logan strides out of the room before fixing Colt with a bemused look. “Why is she  _ there _ ? You are the last person I would go to when I was sick.”

“Thank God. That would be awful,” he spits out, offended, but can’t help the voice in his head that thinks she’s right. He  _ is  _ the last person anyone should go to. Who in their right mind would want Colt Kaneko to nurse them back to health?

“I’m sure you’re doing fine.” Ximena rubs a strong hand on his shoulder and Colt has to focus on not wincing. Once she drops her hand, he is free to shrug, pulling out his phone to avoid Logan’s eyes as he storms back into the room.

“She’s sleeping.”

“That’s what I just said.” He has to bite his tongue to stop the childish  _ ‘don’t go in my room _ ’ from leaving his lips; his dad needs locks on these doors, for fuck’s sake.

“You better be keeping your hands to yourself, bucko.”

“No one says that anymore, asshole.”

Logan glowers but doesn’t respond before thundering back out of the room.

“Did she eat anything?” Ximena asks.

“I got her soup.”

“And are you keeping her hydrated?”

His mind skips and he stands, not even answering the question.  _ Fuck _ . Something to  _ drink _ .  _ This  _ is why Ellie should have trusted someone else, anyone else,  _ anyone  _ but him. He doesn’t know shit about sick people. He trudges back to the grocery store, unable to pull the petulant glare from his face, boots stomping a hollow beat on the pavement the entire way. The automatic doors have just slid open with a mechanical  _ swoosh  _ when he pulls out his phone.

“What helps someone who’s sick?” He is storming up and down the familiar aisles again, and if that asshole cashier glares at him one more time, he’ll have a lot more to worry about than Colt shoplifting something. He clenches the phone tighter in his grasp.

“Hmmm. It depends. What do you have?”

“Uhh ...tap water? And soup.” The whiskey in his desk drawer surely doesn’t count and, even if it did, it’s not something he would divulge to his mother.

“No,” she chuckles over the phone. “I mean, what are you sick with?”

“Oh, it’s not me.”

“Ok, then. What do they have?”

“I don’t know, ma. Do I look like a doctor?”

“No, but it’s not too late to go back to-“

“Ma!”

“Fine, fine.” Her sigh is long suffering, twenty years of stress imbued in the huff. “What are their symptoms?”

“I dunno. All she’s doing is sleeping. She had a cough?”

“ _ Ohhh _ .” His mother’s tone immediately makes him realize his mistake. “Who is  _ she _ ?”

“Ma. Focus.”

“She must be someone special if you’re calling me for advice.”

“Jesus, Ma.”

“Ok, ok. Does she have a fever?”

“Maybe?” He thought back to their nap, when he had awoken with their legs and arms intertwined in an array that took minutes to untangle, movements gentle to make sure not to wake her. She had been warm; then again, so had he, his skin flushed at every contact, her curves skating over his chest, his legs, every point of connection sparking slow warmth that make his nerves shimmer. “I think so?”

“Rest and fluids are probably your best bet.”

“What kinds of fluid?”

“Water. Ginger ale. Gatorade if she can keep it down.”

“Ok. Fine.” He grabs two bottles each of ginger ale and red Gatorade, the only acceptable flavor, and treks back to the registers, back to the heavy eyes of the cashier, and back to the garage, groaning the entire way.

~~~~~

The drinks are all in an array on his bedside table when he slides back into bed next to her. She had eaten some soup; though, as he eyes the bowl, it doesn’t seem like enough for one person to eat in a day. However, he is mollified when he realizes she is awake, gauzy eyes blinking at him beneath slow lashes.

“Hey.”

Her grin is pained but true as she looks up at him. “Hey.”

“How are you feeling?”

The smile immediately fades into a scowl. “Not good.”

“Do you want something to drink?”

“No.” She shakes her head, fingers dipping up the back of his shirt to clutch at the skin on his back, pulling him closer.

“I got-”

“I don’t want it.”

“Ok, fine.” 

She shivers and nestles even closer, a line of warmth burrowing into him, and he wraps an arm around her shoulder.

“I don’t feel good.”

“I know, baby,” he mutters into her forehead. How is he supposed to tell if she has a fever? Yeah, she’s warm, but Ellie always burns bright. He frowns.

“No, you don’t understand. I don’t feel  _ goooood _ .” She’s whining now, shifting closer, wrapping a leg around him.

“I know.”

“No, Colt.” She looks up at him, eyes wide and unnaturally bright, and links their fingers together, sliding their joined hands down, past the elastic of her pajama pants, down to where she is undeniably hot, heat lacing up his fingers as she gazes at him. “Make me feel good.”

“Ellie…”

“Please, Colt.” And, just like that, he is helpless to obey, capturing the moan from her lips as he eases her pants off her legs. He drags his lips down to her shoulder as her eyes fall shut, hair settling around her face in haphazard designs as his fingertips walk their way back up her inner thighs. She shivers and, this time, Colt knows it isn’t the illness taking control of her body. 

His thumb traces gentle circles over the cotton, gently, so gently, focused over the spot that makes her thighs clench, but he can’t pull his eyes from her face. Her eyes are screwed shut and soft sighs are being pulled from her mouth. The noises are almost satisfaction, almost satiation,  _ something  _ deep and warm made auditory, captivating pleas and gasps that encompass words he doesn’t know, vocabulary he never learned. 

Or maybe there aren’t words for the contentness in her brow, the slow circles made by the seam of her lips.

He is helpless to do anything but move his hand just so, just to pull more of the soft noises from her throat, and he is surprised when her nails dig into his thigh and a gush of moisture dampens her underwear.

She is always compelling, an angel made real in the hell of this place, but when she lies pliant against his sheets, glowing with pleasure, limbs relaxed and languid? She is  _ majestic _ , an angel and queen wrapped in the guise of his deepest desire.

He is so caught up in staring that the touch of her hand on the front of his pants is a shock. His stomach clenches as he feels her soft skin reach it’s target and  _ fuck _ , he’s hard, he hadn’t even realized, mind so caught up in admiring her. She wraps thin fingers around him and his traitorous cock leaps in her hand, moan catching in his throat.

“Ellie…I don’t think...” 

He moves to pull away but her plaintive voice stops him. “Please? Please, Colt. I feel so bad. I just want to feel good.  _ Please _ .”

He moves before he processes his reaction, hands sliding fabric from her skin, pulling his sweats down, crawling between her legs, operating on sole instinct. He has never been able to deny her and now is no exception, not when those hands reach out to grasp his hips and her mouth moves in the shape of his name.

Her eyes are still closed as he slides into her and it is hot, so hot. She is boiling, the sudden flush instantly sending flames up his spine, heating him to the core until he is about to burst, a phoenix fully destroyed by her touch. 

He can’t help but thrust into her, again and again, as the soft noises drive him mad, almost to the point of insanity, until they are shuddering together and he has been fully engulfed by the flames. When he comes back to himself, reborn anew, he is gratified to see the soft smile still gracing the bow of her lips.

Not for the first time today, he selfishly hopes she never feels better.

~~~~~

“Come on. Shower.” Colt tries to keep his hands gentle, but he’s not sure he manages when she winces as he pulls her shirt over her head. “Come on.”

“No,” she pouts petulantly, but she takes his outstretched hand anyway.

“It will help.”

“No. I want to sleep.”

“You will, after,” he promises and shuffles her over to the bathroom. 

When the water is warm, he leads her in and she sags against him, his body supporting hers so she can balance on two unsteady legs.

“Oh,” he chuckles, “is that how this is gonna go?”

“I wanted to stay in bed.” Her eyes flutter closed as she leans on his shoulder and he takes his time rubbing soap over her back, her arms, every spot of skin he can reach.

She mewls her contentment as he runs shampoo into her hair, soap and curls tangling in his fingers as his nails dig gentle circles in her scalp. She has so much hair, volumes of it sliding through his fingers, that the lather isn’t fully out before she starts sinking, a slow, sleepy lean that turns into Colt holding her up, taut arms bracing her limp form.

They sink, slowly, until they are sitting on the shower floor and her toes dig indents into his thigh. He musses her hair until all the suds flow down the drain and then pushes her off his chest so he can part the curtain in front of her face. A wan smile greets him and, even though she’s slept for the better part of 24 hours, he can still see dark smears under her eyes, as if someone had fingerpainted exhaustion across her features.

“Come on, let’s go back to bed.” He tugs her up, wrapping her into his one clean towel, and barely manages to wrangle her into one of his t-shirts and a pair of basketball shorts before she flops onto the bed.

He shakes his head and turns to the bedside table. “Drink,” he admonishes, holding a cup of ginger ale to her lips and she manages three meager sips before she pushes him away with a weak hand. He puts the cup back on the bedside table and, by the time he has turned around, she has flopped against the pillows and is breathing slowly into his sheets.

He shakes his head and slides in next to her, torn between hoping she feels better and hoping for just one more day of this.

~~~~~

Ellie opens her eyes and, for the first time that she can remember, the sunlight doesn’t hurt. She breathes in and is stunned when the urge to cough doesn’t overwhelm her. She breathes out through her nose and her mouth fall open.

“Colt!” She turns to the lump next to her. “Colt, I can breathe through my nose!” She was exceedingly excited about her admission into Langston, but this is a close second in terms of lifetime achievements. However, the lump barely stirs, making no move to celebrate.

“Colt?” 

“Huh?” He’s half asleep but his voice is hoarse, scratchy. Her eyes widen. She pulls back the cover and looks over to where he hasn’t budged. His mouth is open, breathing raspy, and a flush is covering his cheeks, spreading over his sharp cheekbones with a ruddiness that belies a familiar fever. She gingerly puts a hand to his forehead and frowns at the sharp heat meeting her palm. He still doesn’t move but a wracking cough makes its way from his lungs.

She shakes her head and settles back into bed. Looks like she’s staying here for a little while more.

  
  



End file.
